Vague images
by LumenIzampel
Summary: Varric is sometimes quick to judge, but Mithiin Lavellan is a different nut to crack. Most see her simply as a kind Dalish mage in the right place at the right time, but Varric sees something else more than that. [Inquisitor development fic, with hints of Solavellan.]
1. Scarves and names

_A/N: This was something I wrote as some sort of character development series thing for my inquisitor, Mithiin Lavellan. I've written an unbelievable amount of text and description for her, but I never actually got to sit down and complete writing something, or even thought of why I'm writing said text. So I'm putting it to good use, I guess._

_This was supposed to be a one shot, but the words kept on coming, so I split it to chapters. But it's... still not yet done. Amazing.  
Still, __I hope you like it, and please do tell me what you think! =)_

..

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The elf was a lot less formidable-looking than expected.

When Cassandra sent the message about the survivor being a possible suspect, his creative mind was already forming expectations of the prisoner. Of course, Cassandra is always quick to assume, quick to point fingers, and pretty damn quick to beat someone to submission. But he knew better. He knew she might have spun a story, else there would be no prisoner to talk about. Cassandra did not say much, but damn, he's excited.

But seeing her right now, it might have been for the better that his expectations weren't met, else, they'd be deeper down the demon pit.

She was short and lithe — in human standards at least, and looked like she's way too young to be in the Conclave. The markings on her face and her elaborate braids on her silver hair tells Varric that she's Dalish, and the magic earlier means that she could be a clan's First. The mercenary coat she was wearing made her look like she was wearing too many layers, which makes sense since they're in a frigid wasteland, and the girl was making efforts to pull her scarf closer to herself, easing the cold at the very least.

Cassandra introduced her as a prisoner and nothing more or less, and the girl talked little, merely asking of the origins of the Breach, the mark on her hand — obviously, Solas was more than eager to answer whatever inquiries she had — and a quip or two about Bianca. Of course, that earned Varric's approval almost instantly, and thought to himself that she's more than this tiny little elf girl he's seeing.

After they started heading out to the forward camp, the girl stops for a moment, and looks back to Varric as if she just saw him there for the first time.

"Aren't you cold?" she asks. She fidgets with the scarf, but later on gets distracted with a wraith she saw in the distance, and proceeds to attack it first, setting it on fire of all things, obliterating it almost completely. Just so, the shades were quick pickings. After the fight, she skips beside Varric like she's still waiting for a response.

"I've been worse," Varric replies, matched with his trademark grin. "Could be better, though. But prisoners can't complain, can they?"

And in a swift move, she takes off her scarf, crouches down, and wraps it around Varric's neck. It looked awkward and odd, and it was gaining a chuckle or two from Solas, but it stayed, and she did not waste a second fixing it to make sure that it stayed in place.

"I'm all good in layers. I don't know about you, though." She pats her thick layers of clothing, as if to reassure him. "Just return it to me when we get somewhere safe."

"Th-thanks." Varric wasn't able to say anything else, and made no attempts to return it, seeing that she's not gonna hear through his complaints no matter how hard he tries. The scarf was rough and odd and was all sorts of weird — it was woven with a mix of worn-out cotton and had embroidered designs out of a darker sack cloth thread — but it was warm and thick and he appreciated it. Looking at the mage, she seems to _not_ need it, after all; she breathes out fire and warms her hand with wisps of steam, and seems to be a little more comfortable without it.

Varric walked to the mage's direction, trying to keep up with her speed as much as he could. "Hey." He flashed his friendliest smile, and the elf blinked in confusion after he spends a few seconds just looking at her. "Unless Cassandra wants to keep calling you 'prisoner', we should know your name."

She tenses, but nods in agreement. "Lavellan works."

He raises an eyebrow, feigning confusion. "Is that your _actual_ name or your _clan_ name? It's gonna get awkward if we ever meet a clan mate of yours, you know."

The tension returns, and Lavellan avoids the question as much as speech and body language can manage. "Well, you haven't yet, have you?"

Answer a question with a question, then. "If we're going to spend most of our time together here in this frozen wasteland ass-deep in demons, might as well as get to know each other, right?"

She sighs, giving up on the verbal argument. "Mithiin," she says, barely audible.

Varric repeats the name, but he missed a syllable. He was genuinely curious and repeats it again as accurately as he heard it, and Lavellan shakes her head, either in embarrassment or annoyance. She repeats it again, and sighs as Varric tries and fails again, rubbing fingers on her temples. "That's why Lavellan is preferable," she says. There was a tone of sarcasm, but he wasn't sure if that was intentional. "If you could not pronounce it properly, I'd prefer Lavellan, please."

Then Cassandra calls out as they reach the forward camp, shouting out that she's seeing a rift on the way. Lavellan turns to his direction, does a slight, quick curtsy, as if she's some Orlesian girl formally excusing herself, before proceeding to fry the demons back to where they came from, and seems to have so much fun doing so.

He has only met her for an hour or so, but he's liking her strange spirit.


	2. Mud and snow

It has been a few weeks — or months? — ever since the Inquisition has been revived. There has been new people in the inner circle, they have already scoured half of the Hinterlands to 'establish our influence', they have already went to Val Royeaux and laughed about their stupid fashion after dealing with their Chantry.

And Varric still has not returned her scarf.

He would have, since he hated holding onto items that is not exactly his, but he did not always see her around the village, and if she had struck a conversation, she has left before he remembered. And catching her around is impossible, since she was either out talking to their new companions or busy in the war council. Odd how she got quickly promoted from prisoner to a leader, but Varric prefers other people asking questions, not him.

But damn, Lavellan next to never brings him along nowadays, ever since that talkative elf got recruited in the inner circle. She's a good archer, yes, but he's not even sure if she's as much of a good shot like him and Bianca. Lavellan said that she's scheduling the inner circle expeditions in a way that her new companions will quickly get used to operations and expeditions, which seemed half horse-shit and half intelligent planning to him. He decided not to question it further, else Sera says something about him being too clever. There's nothing he can do about her opinion.

But the scarf has been with him for weeks. He wants — no, _needs_ — to return it. Lavellan wasn't anywhere near going to him to get it back, and that may be because she's either too shy to ask for it— a likely possibility, seeing how her inner introvert surfaces at the worst times, or she's just too occupied. Probably the latter, considering how things are going.

He gives up. He's going to ask someone. Varric stood up, picked up the scarf bundled up on his table. He's headed out for the door before he realized that he needs to ask_ someone_ in the inner circle to give it to her. The question is _who_? Sera's out of the options, she's probably going to laugh at him. Vivienne may just suggest to get Lavellan a new scarf, or diss the possibility of her wearing a scarf for the rest of her Inquisition days, considering how fashion-oriented she is (it gets a little annoying, but her opinion is welcome often). The Charger's lieutenant is more sensible and gentle than the Bull himself, and he doesn't even come with Lavellan. Solas... with the state of his usual clothes, Varric would not trust him to keep something clean before it reaches Lavellan's hands.

He has no choice, then. Varric grins, taking it as an opportunity, and heads out to the soldier's camps just outside Haven's gates.

Just as he expected, Cassandra was idle right beside the tents, sitting on a tree stump and polishing her sword. She raised an eyebrow when she saw him coming, but did not stop herself from wiping off the blood from her weapon, both as a warning and a statement.

"You've been out with Lavellan for the past few days, seeker." It wasn't a question; it was fact, and both of them knew it. Cassandra nods, lays down the sword she was cleaning, and takes out a dagger. Varric took a step back as if she was about to gut him, but the seeker just used it to scrape off the mud and snow off her boot soles.

"She insists." Cassandra does short work of one sole, and she works through cleaning the other sole off, as if Varric wasn't there. "Said that I knew more about leading than she does. She believes that I could lead her along while she's learning the ropes."

That wasn't surprising. As much as she knew Lavellan, the elf was the type to seek other people's opinion as much as she could. But that wasn't why Varric was here.

"I was not going to ask about that." Varric quickly replies, and Cassandra's face sours at the slightest. "I was wondering if you could do something for me."

"No."

He takes out the scarf, and Cassandra looks at it for a second or two, figuring it out. "Lavellan would hate it if she's cold and she does not have her trusty scarf around her neck, wouldn't she?"

The seeker pauses, letting it sink in for a moment, before scraping off one last layer of mud on her boot.

"Lady Mithiin keep on fraying her coat since she keeps on fiddling with the stitches." She snatches the cream-colored scarf off his hands, and his grin widens as he watches her fold it like a housewife would her husband's clothes. "She needs something else to occupy her hands."

Varric raises an eyebrow. Since when did Lavellan became nobility? As much as Varric knew, Cassandra wasn't the type to shove titles to people. "Lady what, now?"

"Mithiin," she repeats, almost the same tone Lavellan used when she said it for the first time, except a little clearer. "It's a start."

There was an awkward pause as Cassandra lays down the dagger someplace and stashes the scarf to her pack, and finds herself without anything to do, and resorts to doing this really odd thing where she picks on her palms and stretches and presses her fingers together. It's a mannerism of sorts that Varric has noticed when Cassandra felt uncomfortable, and that's a good sign — for him, at least.

"Is something the matter, seeker?" Varric grins. "You usually have something to spit back to me."

The seeker's fidgeting became quicker, and avoids eye contact altogether. She sighs out before continuing. "She's been... okay," she breathes out.

"Who, Lavellan?" His grin widens. "Why so? I thought you're all fine with her leading. Or have you changed your mind?"

"No! It's just that she's... been _amazing_ so far." The words felt like it took willpower to say that, and to him nonetheless. "Although I'd hate to admit it. Everyone loves her, and she gives it back in equal measure."

"Maybe because she's not interrogating every person she sees." Varric muses. "First impressions do kind of last, seeker."

"And your quip-telling and clever-act to everyone is supposed to attract friends?"

And this is why it's so pleasant to talk to Cassandra: she's never lost in a verbal argument if she actually tries. But Varric believes that he's gonna win this one. "If the chest hair is not enough, yes."

She makes that trademark disgusted noise from the back of her throat, and Varric knows that he's won it.

"Okay, I get it, Lavellan is a better leader than expected." Varric loses the grin and sarcastic tone, because this time, he's asking for legitimate answers with no jokes and quips attached. "You're saying that she's been amazing so far, and I see that. I've seen what she has done here."

"And the things she has done to help others," Cassandra follows, "is somewhat... unbelievable."

"I think you've lost me with 'unbelievable.'"

"She does thing to help people. From saving towns to getting everyone food and warm blankets, to helping that one widow to clean his wife's shrine." Cassandra sighs, her mind obviously filtering the words to say in an effort not to ramble. "I feel like I'm following Andraste around with the way she helps everyone."

That... was a surprise. Lavellan sounded so far away from the shy girl that he had met weeks ago when the Breach exploded and started puking demons in Thedas. But hell, it could have been just for show; after all, if people keep on thinking that she's the Herald of Andraste, they have this hope they cling on to which keeps them going.

Or maybe it makes them believe and support the Inquisition further, that's why she's doing that. Either works, really.

"Isn't that ideal for you?" Varric asks. "Why are you telling this to me? Am I in your 'totally-not-going-to-strangle' list?"

The seeker scoffs, finding the question rather preposterous. "Don't you have anything smarter than that to tell to me about it? Or have you been too far away from Lavellan to tell if I'm saying something believable?"

Varric just laughs, and by this point he was pretty sure Cassandra regretted opening her mouth to talk to him in the first place. She shoos the dwarf away before he says anything else, saying that she'd get her sword and dagger dirty again if he stays any longer. He knows the implication of that and does his quickest run back to his place.

Two minutes seems like a good start. And it's all worth it, anyway.


	3. Wine and books

Skyhold have been a good sign for the Inquisition, and Varric is just amazed by the fact that he walked out of that hellhole that Haven became after that Corypheus attacked. He still couldn't process that yes, that was the darkspawn magister they killed years back, and yes, he's alive because Maker-knows-why, but it's like he missed that bastard — after all, Corypheus did look uglier after a few years. Varric admits that he had already gotten used to a lot of things back at Haven: the people, the snowy landscape, the sight of the Breach as soon as he steps out of his tent, and that was all gone when that darkspawn bastard attacked. But change is permanent. And at the very least, he's already itching for a new, softer bed. Skyhold has enough room for one small dwarf, yes?

So, a celebratory drink was on place for their small victory. Some of the soldiers had it arranged days back - meant for a certain lieutenant's name day and nothing else, but it was in time with their arrival in Skyhold that everyone pitched in to make it a huge party. Not to mention that the said soldier deserved some credit after she helped with the defense back at Haven, and made huge efforts evacuating everyone before Lavellan's staredown with Corypheus.

After everyone have settled in and have made a corner of the place their home, they went ahead and picked a random building their tavern, stocked all the liquor they managed to save from Haven there, and poured wine and ale for each other, and later on, there was merry singing and dancing. It was amazing on how quickly they have built everything, how quickly they have claimed Skyhold, and how inspired they were of the Inquisitor — ah yes, Mithiin's new title. She is still not yet accustomed to being called titles — being Dalish, it was not exactly a trend to shower titles and names to each other, but she just tried her best not to dampen anyone's spirits.

When he entered the tavern, Mithiin was there. Varric didn't expect her to be here, especially that with their new base of operations, Cassandra would be filled with questions and "what ifs" and preparations for things and the like, but the seeker may have some sense to let her go for the day.

The bard was cheerfully singing a quick rhyme she had made to distract herself and her comrades after Haven, and Mithiin was with them, singing what little she could make out in the lyrics. But she decided to keep herself out of the singing and dancing later on, and just stayed in the corner and hum to herself as she read a book. She was wearing her scarf - which was no wonder since she wears it all the time, and that dark blue coat that Cassandra lent (or gave?) her back at Haven, months ago after her old mercenary coat was in tatters. It was a little loose on places, since it wasn't tailored for an elf, but he has seen her frequently in it, so it must be comfortable.

"Good read?"

Mithiin almost jumped off her seat when she heard him, and tried hiding the book she was reading, but she end up dropping it, instead. Varric crouches to pick it up, and takes a good, long look at the cover. "What?" Mithiin sounded as if she'd be murdered for reading a book, but the half-scared look off her face faded in the slightest when Varric handed it back.

"You read _Song of Seasons_?"

Mithiin snatches it off his hands. "It's a good read, if that answers your question." A pause, before she follows it up. "And it was in the Inquisition's library."

Ah. That must be Vivienne and Dorian's doing. When the mages noticed that there are barely any fiction books in the Inquisition's library aside from Varric's novels, they donated whatever old fiction they had with them that are still worth reading, and one of the longest series they have collected together was _Song of Seasons_. Varric did read it, but he wasn't too fond of the plot because of its overly-detailed schemes and twists. "Never thought that you're interested in detailed mystery serials." Varric said as he sat down beside her, in a way that he would not have to crane his neck to look at her. "Isn't that the serial with a lot of romance intrigue and crime drama? Like my crime serials, except with more kissing and more killing?"

"Most of the soldiers read it, okay?" Mithiin says as she opens the book and skims through the pages. She sounded like she was supposed to be hanged for reading the serial, and flips through the pages again, looking for her dog-eared page. "I was wondering what it was all about."

He was about to grim and laugh, when he realized: this is Mithiin of clan Lavellan, a Dalish elf who probably spent most of her life avoiding templars and travelling around to avoid the cities, whose most exciting activity had to be something as dull and repetitive as setting something on fire or learning something new about history or something of the sort. Knowing her, she's not the type to go out and wonder why life is dull, either, and certainly not the type to go out and find out anything more than that.

"Why are you reading this, though?"

Varric sees her pause and actually think why. It took her a full minute before she was able to respond, and the certainty on her voice on the response that followed was surprisingly evident. "I think because I wanted to talk to the soldiers about anything that's not military operations, I guess?"

That's... actually rather kind of her to do.

"You know Scout Harding, right? She has her personal squad, which she calls the Eclipses. They help Harding manage and lead scouting operations and all that when she can't. You know, really great scouts and fighters and even mages, best among the best of her people." She lays down the book on the table as she fiddles with her fingers. Maryden switches to the usual tavern songs, for most of the excitement of the party has died down to a lull and the drinks have done its job of silencing most of them, and sings the Orlesian version of Rise to help the mood. Lavellan notices this, and smiles as the bard struggles to pronounce the Orlesian words clearly.

"I saw the book in her tent and I thought it looked good. Turns out, she reads it to the Eclipses during campfire nights when they have free time. After Haven, I found the Eclipses, but one of their closest and best mages died during the siege."

"And you played therapist?" Varric asked.

"So I told them that I'd read the book to them, so they'd remember the times that they were with them while they listen and laugh and speculate." She giggles as she rests her elbows on the book and rests her head on her hands, somewhat deep in thought. "It's just a book, but it did kind of pulled them together. I'd read to them when I've time, but I like discussing with them too, so..."

Varric suddenly grabs the book without warning, effectively ruining her comfortable position and smacking her chin-first on the table.

"You do know playing therapist is not your job, Wishes." He flips through the book as he looks for the dog-eared page that she had left for lack of a bookmark. Mithiin pauses for a while, as if letting the new nickname sink, but later on tries to snatch her book back, but Varric is pretty successful in keeping it out of reach as he opens the book and searches for the page. As soon as he have found it, he reads out the first paragraph that he sees.

"'_Yet somehow, the disease still lived, the plague went on, and many suffered as the civil war went on. Chains might restrain our arms and legs, but it cannot hold back our will to be free. They might kill us and our people, but they will not get anywhere in ruining our resolve. And hope is brightest when the world around it is bleak._'" He grins as he skims through the pages. "This guy writes better fiction than I do."

"It's the least that I can do! With all due respect, Varric, it's none of your business to tell me how to lead." She stands up and snatches the book off his hands and slams it on the table, before sitting back down again as if it proves her point. "If the people need me, I will come, and I will help as much as I could. Is that so hard to understand?"

Varric was about to reply when Mithiin glanced out to the window and notices how dark the sky was. In an instant, her somehow relaxed composure turns to panic, and she jumps up her seat and started scrambling around as if she was figuring out what in Thedas is she supposed to do. After a few moments, she looks at Varric as if she just noticed him.

"Oh, Creator! I'm so sorry to cut our debate short, but I should go!" She stands up, and does that trademark curtsy once again, even though it was evident that she was in a hurry, and forces out a sheepish grin. She grabs the book and tucks it under her arm, and bows hastily. "Solas said he has something to tell me. Really, _really_ important, he said. And if he said that, I'm pretty sure he's not joking around. See you around, Varric!"

"See you around, Wishes." She does her trademark curtsy before she leaves, almost looking as excited as a child in her first Satinalia, which leaves Varric alone in the corner of the tavern. The music had mellowed considerably, the laughter had turned to murmurs with the occasional benching and loud arguing, and the dancing became slow and drunken yet still laced with giggles and toe-stepping. Maryden is slumped on her seat on top of an upturned wine barrel, but kept playing anyway, as she strums her guitar and hums tunes and old shanties and songs about fallen kingdoms and heroes and how they rose back to power.

To be honest with himself, Varric never had a full opinion of Mithiin up until tonight. He could have never connected the dots himself, if Cassandra did not tell him about Lavellan's surprisingly honorable side, and if Mithiin did not fess up about it and confirmed the seeker's stories. Who knew that the shy girl who looked like he couldn't hurt a fly would be brave and kind enough to stop at everyone to help them?

He kind of wished he had her spirit in this sort of situation. Varric's face hardened to a frown. No wonder that "wishes" nickname he had given him sounded so natural, like it had fit her like a glove. She's a living wish. A wish everyone wanted to come true. A prophet of sorts. A legend. Varric still doesn't know if it's an insult to her, or some sort of glorification. But it fits.

Mithiin has been a lot closer with her inner circle, and she had been making efforts to build the alliance between its members a lot tighter — sewing whatever rivalry back to proper, workable shape; settling differences and... well, she's pretty much trying to tell them that they should respect each other despite differences. All Varric has been hearing from the other inner circle members is how dastardly perfect she is.

They now had new members with Blackwall and the Iron Bull and that Tevinter mage, Dorian and that kid, Cole... and with this, her job is suddenly a lot harder to do. It's like Varric can blame her. She has been talking a lot with everyone. Especially, she's gone full-scale with her 'Herald of Andraste' nickname and actually started studying about the Fade as well as about the Andrastian religion. She's seen her a lot with Solas, discussing the Fade, the Breach, whatever else falls in the category of his studies—

Wait... since when did_ Solas_ and Mithiin became close friends?


	4. Coats and scars

_A/N: I wish someone has told me before that Cole's fun to write because damn it, he's so fun to write. Another thing— I forgot the name of the guy who's with Dagna in the undercroft, but this is as far as memory can remember. If it's wrong, please tell me! uwu;;_

_The Halamshiral ball will take up three chapters, and I still write really, really long, so forgive me if the Halamshiral chapters are a lot longer than usual. ;; _

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Varric can't just read through a paragraph of Song of Seasons, as much as he tries to force himself to read it.

In the end, he just politely returns the thing to the library, and just swears to himself to never ever return in that place, as much as he enjoys watching people pick out his novels from the bookshelf. Even though it had been his only hobby for the last few hours, after he felt like he had been tortured out of his wits until he's left half-silly with that meeting, no, the library won't be the place for him to spend his time.

For the first time ever, the inquisitor will have the inner circle head out in their own to do the usual influence-establishing expeditions, while she stays behind in Skyhold to discuss with the advisors about their move in Halamshiral and the ball. She had a 5-hour meeting with all of them, told them that there would be two teams for the next month to head out on their own to Orlais and Ferelden, and announced that Cassandra and Blackwall would be the leaders of the respective teams.

And of course, he had to be in Cassandra's team. Obviously, most of the time in that meeting was spent complaining about their assignments, but in the end Lavellan was able to adjust it so everyone won't suffer so badly in their team assignments. Vivienne, Cole and Solas were also in Cassandra's team, while Blackwall's team got readjusted and finally had Sera, Dorian, and Iron Bull.

At the very least, Cole will be a welcome distraction.

Also, not only were they planning their move in the ball, but they've also planned on what they will wear in the event. All Lavellan told them is that the inner circle would have their clothes customized, since it is pretty likely that they will encounter a fight while they investigate, while the three of them will be just fine in Josephine's old gowns and coats from the Montilyet family — as much as they wanted to get new coats and dresses, Cullen thought it was a waste of gold for an outfit they'd only wear once.

They were dismissed, asked to prepare for tomorrow's expeditions. But Varric decided to do a small detour to return the book, and to ask Leliana about other details that Lavellan won't spit out about the Inquisition's plans in Halamshiral. He climbs up to the rookery to find the spymaster and he walked closer to her as she was tending to a crow.

"Got a designer for the ball?" Varric asks the spymaster, who was in the middle of fitting an identification ring on one of the messenger crows with an old letter opener. "Formal Orlesian clothing that is suitable for fighting is hard to make, you know."

"A designer?" Leliana repeats, like it's a silly question. She was able to fit the identification ring to the crow she had in hand, and throws the bird up for it to return to its cage. "We already have one."

"And who could that—"

And Mithiin suddenly runs up the stairs to the rookery, with a journal in hand and a stack of loose sheets with sketches on them. "Leliana! There you are." Mithiin grabs the loose sheets and hands them to Leliana. "I was wondering if I could distribute these designs to the inner circle already."

Leliana places the letter opener on her desk and flips through the individual loose sheets with a smile. "Wow, this is amazing!" Varric could see Leliana's inner fashion side surface as her smile goes from ear to ear, flipping through the other designs. "Your work is gorgeous, as always. I can't wait to see this in its actuality!"

Wait... what?

"Did I hear that right?" Varric walks nearer to the two ladies, as Mithiin flips through the journal, looking for something. "You're the designer?"

Mithiin didn't reply with anything but an excited nod.

Damn. You learn something about this lady everyday. Instead of spitting out a sarcastic reply, Varric tried to peer on the designs. "Can I see them, at the least?"

"Sure!" She plucks out a handful of sheets from Leliana's hands, and passes it to Varric's. "We were just about to distribute these, anyway. Here's the one also for Cass, Vivienne, Cole, aaaand Solas." She hands him more sheets of paper. "I labeled them and all that."

Varric excused himself, saying that he needs to prepare for the expedition, and forced himself not to look at the designs until he has reached the second floor of the quartermaster's building, their designated meeting place. Cassandra has busied herself with her pack; while Cole had deemed it entertaining to help Vivienne and Solas pack their rather volatile potion bottles by wrapping them with black cloth to avoid them from clattering to each other. All Solas did was arrange some pocket books. Well, sounds like Solas's plan for the expedition is to read his way through every argument that comes up.

"Wishes wanted me to hand you these." Varric passes around the sketches, making sure that they got the sheets designated to them, and sure enough, Varric easily catches Cassandra's confused frown on the sketches, as the seeker tries to figure them out.

"What... is this, exactly?"

"Ball outfit schematics." Varric grins. "She'll have our outfits customized, like she said in the meeting. Weren't you listening?"

"We could have just worn formal armor." She muses, but she did not sound annoyed or disappointed; rather, she looks over the designs with a somewhat satisfied smile. "But this will do."

He remembered the seeker complaining about the customized dresses, saying that it would be far more practical — and cheap — to wear formal armor instead. But Mithiin turned her down, saying that not only the whole of Halamshiral will see the Hero of Orlais with their own eyes, she was also excited to see Cassandra in something that's not armor. Not to mention that there was mail underneath the dress, so she didn't have to worry about dying, anyway. In the end, the seeker relented and agreed. Varric knew she'd give up trying. It's the Inquisitor, her closest friend, that's asking her to ease off the armor for once.

He knew that Cassandra can't argue with Lavellan's large, bright puppy eyes.

"It looks like me, but it isn't me." Cole murmurs as he looked closer to the sketches like they're storybook illustrations. "This Cole dons a different hat, with roses and tulips that scream of beauty and secrets on them."

"That they do." Varric smiles, silently thanking Lavellan for the designs. "Do you like it, kid?"

Cole pauses, looking at the sketches once again, before smiling. "Yes."

"Kindly excuse me, darlings," Vivienne suddenly stood up and turned to leave, all with a rather genuine smile. "I need to talk to our dear Inquisitor." She's stepped down the stairs and was out of earshot when they have finally deemed it safe to look at each other with confusion.

"Did she not like her persona in the paper?" Cole asks, still in his awkward sitting position on his chair, papers in hand, as if he'd find answers in it. "Did it lack flowers and jewels and her fancy silks that match her tastes?"

All Varric did was shrug, because honestly, he doesn't know, and it surprises him that Cole doesn't know, either. Varric turns to Solas, who had been surprisingly silent for the entire conversation — Varric did think at one point that Solas had a grudge against fashion, seeing the usual state of his clothes, but all he had been doing is looking at the sketches, as if searching for words to say or mulling over his own opinion.

The dwarf walks closer to Solas and peers in his version of the designs which was a set with a dark blue-green trench coat and pale green embroideries, which was distinctively Orlesian in origin, but was obviously suited to Solas's tastes. He couldn't make out the designs much, mainly because there were a lot more notes than it should be on the sides. Things like _"inside will be made out of fur, but if you're against that, just do tell"_ and _"this will be ideal but you can wear any pair of boots you want"_ were scattered around the borders.

In the bottom of the paper was written _"We're equals in this night's ballroom. ~ML"_

Solas glanced at Varric as if he just saw him come nearer. He raises the papers. "This... This is Mithiin's work?" Solas's voice sounded like he could not believe the fact.

"That's what Nightingale and Wishes said." Varric grins sheepishly. "I know. Never knew her as a designer."

The elf merely flashes the smallest smile he could manage. "Knowing her, she must have planned this for a long time. I could have seen it sooner."

Varric was about to respond with a quip when Cole beat him to it, all in his same odd, prophetic tone. "He sees ruffles and dreams plucked out of a hazy world, sewn to his tastes and decorated in his persona in the paper. He sees the love that will be sewn in the hem and stitches and every inch of it. And it was made by her hands, the one he holds the most against his fingers."

Solas just turns to Cole as if that wasn't supposed to be said out loud, and the boy merely shrunk in his seat like he was supposed to disappear in it. What is he going on about—

...oh.

_Ohh._

Varric merely grins, finally understanding the implication of it. "Well Chuckles, it seems like you're going to have a lot more fun than most of us in the ball." He claps him on the back and Solas just looks at the dwarf like he's gone mad. "Tell us about it, okay?"

"I'm not obliged to tell you anything." He straightens up his chair in an attempt to regain his composure. "This is private."

"But you always wished for—" Cole got cut off by something, and he stood up suddenly. "Where did they go?"

"Cole, no." Solas glares at the boy like he was about to shoot out a fireball. "This is something that you should _not_ meddle in."

The boy just returned to his seat and hugged his legs closer to his chest than dear life, just at the very moment that Vivienne returns and plops herself to her seat, schematics still in hand and a huge smile on her face.

Turns out, she just left to praise Lavellan on her designing skills, and apologized that she does not need it for the ball, because she already have her usual clothes that will work as both a ball outfit and mage robes. "She just asked for my enchanter dress," Vivienne said, "since it needs to be modified so that I would not look like a sore thumb out of the inner circle. She's such a dear designer; I'd love to see more of her works."

That actually said a lot about Lavellan's designing skills.

After everyone had stopped their murmurs about the outfits, Varric finally looked on his own copy of the schematics. The first thing he saw was a note in Mithiin's cursive scribble. _"I'm not really accustomed to designing things for dwarves. Tell me if this is not for your tastes. ~ML"_

But looking at it, it was actually... pretty amazing. He hated Orlesian fashion, probably more than Solas, and he's going to die first before anyone asks him to wear any puffed-sleeved-shirt. He was pretty relieved to see that not only was a puffed sleeve nowhere in this design, it also didn't look too different from his usual outfit. The only difference is that the breastplate underneath his coat was a little more hidden than it used to be, and that his coat had more color on it than usual. Varric actually liked it. He's excited to try it on as soon as it's made.

At least there's something to look forward to as the expeditions go on for the rest of the month.

..

* * *

Two weeks in the month, and it turns out that travelling without Lavellan to pry him off Cassandra's teeth wasn't such a terrible experience.

Not only was the seeker surprisingly pleasant during the expeditions, she was way too busy leading them all to their destination, that there was not enough time for her to spit back or to even acknowledge him beside her. He has made it a habit to stay close to Cassandra — it's not anything bad, sometimes he just feel a little safer in that place. Also, he does a pretty good job shooting an enemy from his position beside her. After the fight is done, she'd smile to him, but no words are spoken between them.

He actually missed her talking, but Cole, Vivienne and Solas were the ones filling in the silence in the group as they hike. Cole would often speak out thoughts from the group, and Solas would make short work of it by asking him to stop, or by commenting. He was a lot more talkative than usual, and oftentimes, he would even engage in enemies with whatever brute force magic can do, all while reading one of the pocket books he had brought. Sometimes Varric is confused with what sort of talent he has.

And after a week is done, they would return to Skyhold and stay there for a day or two, before they head out again. Varric looks forward to the weekends where he could just drink and be merry until he could no longer care about anything. But oftentimes, Cassandra would catch him drinking, and she'd pull him out of bar and tell him to stop.

"There's the end of the month. Actually, after the ball. After that, you can drink all you want, but for now, we need you with as much sense in your head as possible."

"The seeker just doesn't want to have fun." He raises the bottle that was still in his hand, and Cassandra knocks it off his stubby fingers, sending it flying to the ground. It's broken to pieces, and Varric looks at it like it's the last bottle in his lifetime that Cassandra just threw away.

"I know how to entertain myself," she said, "and it does not involve making a fool out of myself. Now go to bed. We'll leave early tomorrow. It's unfair for Mithiin to work so hard while we slack around like thugs waiting for their victims."

So that's what this is all about?

All Varric has heard is that Mithiin has been hard at work with Dagna, the smiths, and the tailors with making the inner circle's clothes as comfortable and practical as possible for everyone once the ball rolls in. _It's the Game_, he remembered her saying, _and we won't win if we don't look our best while still being able to beat them._ Dagna was excited for the project, saying that it's amazing that all of them are working on something so interesting and gorgeous at the same time, and actually made doubly sure that the plates and mail are augmented and enchanted as neatly and as lightly as possible.

He couldn't rest, so Varric decided to where they were working — in the undercroft obviously, and it was like a studio where a group of artists would camp in and cram their paintings a day or two before their exhibits. It was far away from the neat and tidy workshop he usually sees, and Lavellan was running up and down the stairs, supervising everything and making sure that they fit. On top of the stairs, the customized dress frames where the armor and the coats and dresses were made, to make sure that it makes sense and that it would fit and not fall off.

There was a note on the floor, and Varric goes to pick it up. It was obviously on Mithiin's elegant scrawl, the one she'd use if her thoughts are too muddled with things to do.

_"There would be three types of clothing that we'll make here. One's for Cass, Blackwall and the Bull. They're going to need legitimate plate armor, so we'll have to get some iron and lazurite and some other metals for enchanting, and some more hammers to make sure that the armor is slim enough. Leliana's scouts have already gathered some ores, just get them at the quartermaster._

_Then Varric, Cole and Sera would have to go with chainmail or leather mail, either works. Varric can go with just a breastplate hidden underneath the shirt. Since Sera's pretty fine with something like her regular clothes, we can pattern it to look the same. Plus, she can't jump around with a huge skirt._

_Solas and Dorian would be okay with just enchanted garments. Unless mail would be fine to sew in there, but I honestly don't think they'd need it. I've got Vivienne's clothes ready, they're enchanted and all that. We just need to modify it so she won't look like a sore thumb from us. _

_(And for Creator's sake, don't hand me a bunch of rags and consider it Solas's garments. I'll bash your head in in the smithing hammer.)_

_Drafts and sketches are in the table in the middle of the room, all posted up. Good luck. Maker be with you. And work safe, some things do tend to explode when you're not careful. _

_~ML"_

All Varric noticed was that it did not say anything about Mithiin's clothes. Are they going to make that too, or she had something ready? Just as he was about to conclude some sort of hypothesis, Mithiin runs up the stairs to greet him, all with a proud smile on her face, despite the dirt and the evident fatigue. She had a workshop apron on, but it looked like she did not need to bother because the dirt and... glitter was everywhere her person. "Hello, Varric!" She beams. "Wanted to see your clothes for the ball?"

"Of course." Varric grins. "So I could already imagine how dashing I would look."

Mithiin giggles as she takes off her dirty gloves and stuffs them in her work apron, and pulls the set of body frames that were Varric's size to her direction, so they'd be in clearer view. So far, all they have done is his plate armor and the shirt, but the coat seems like an easy job considering the dedication Mithiin is pouring on it.

"Wow." Varric's surprised look turned to a satisfied smile. "It looks just like the sketch. You're amazing, Wishes."

"Thank you!" She giggles. "We're going to have a test fit next week, so we could fix anything if you happen to get fat while we're working." The ear-to-ear smile shows itself before she knew it. "Also to see if we need to secure anything else. Don't want anything to fall off, do we?"

"You're terribly dedicated about this, Wishes." Varric steps closer to the body frames and inspects the garments closer. He never found himself a fan of fashion, but damn, these are fine clothes. The Inquisition is putting all of its funds to good use. "Did this artistic side of yours come with the first-meeting childishness, or did I just miss this completely?"

"Oh, Varric, you don't know." She winks. "A little crazy is needed for the artistic stuff to surface, you know."

..

* * *

Varric came in way too early, it seems.

He's waited for one week, and dealt through Cassandra's screams of command and Cole's odd rambling, but it's the weekend and its test fit day, and damn, he's excited. He had headed to the undercroft to pick up his set, and was about to announce his presence, when he saw three figures on the other end of the room.

The two were Dagna and Harrit, that's for sure. The third has her long creamy silver hair down her shoulder blades and was half-naked, her thin frame shivering from the cold air from the waterfall. Varric walks closer as Dagna hands her a white blouse, but not before Varric saw some scars down her lower back, marring the dark tattoos resembling halla horns—

Oh. Mithiin.

"Inquisitor," Dagna calls out of concern, and wraps her pale blue shirt on her shoulders. Mithiin stands up and slips it on with fumbling hands. She already has her pants on, and was about to slip on her boots, picking up the black leather boot beside her.

"I can come back," Varric calls out. "If this is a wrong time, I could come back."

Shit. That was the wrong decision. He could have just left and pretended that he never saw her, but no, he had to come closer and announced her presence. Dagna turned to him, surprised, while Harrit just pretended to poke through the other frames.

Instead of hiding, Mithiin faced Varric, half-naked and barefoot, with her creamy silver hair covering half her chest and back. She pulls her shirt closer and buttons the rest of it as quick as fingers could manage. It took Varric to realize that this was the first time that he had seen her with her hair down. And from his position, Varric can still see the thin, pale scars from her chest up to her neck, and one huge scar over her collarbone.

"No, no!" She walks past him to the corner with racks of body frames, and pulls out the one with Varric's name on it. "I did ask you to come. Go, try it on. Tell me what you think."

By this point, Harrit helps him in his armor as Dagna helps Mithiin dress back to her usual Skyhold clothes, with their backs facing each other, but the dwarf can't help but steal glances to Mithiin's direction as she dresses. It's not the fact that she's half-naked, it's the fact that he would have expected her to hide or something when Varric came in. But she seems okay with it, and she did not seem to mind.

"Shouldn't we be dressing in different rooms?"

A pause, before she responds. "No," Mithiin said. Varric didn't see it, but he was pretty certain that she smiled. "I want to personally hear what you think."

After an hour, he was finished. The plate was on him, the scarf was around his neck and the white shirt covered whatever signs of armor there is. And the blue-green trench coat did a marvelous job of sealing the deal, and the boots felt like the best pair of footwear he's had so far.

"Run around. Carry Bianca," Dagna suggest "See if it's all good and comfortable."

And he did, picking up Bianca and running around with it like usual. It still felt like his usual outfit. It felt incredible. He picked up Bianca, and he shot a bolt or two, right in the waterfall's direction. He skipped and jumped and it still feels correct. Lavellan, already back in her clothes, tried to do a little spar with him with a blunt, failure sword lying around, just to see if he could fight with it, and sure enough, he was still his huge, elusive self.

Dancing with this would be marvelous.

"We already shot the armor with all the types of crossbow bolts and arrows we could think of, so we're certain that arrows are the least of your problems," Lavellan says. "Glad it's all perfect."

"How about you?" Varric asks, as he brings Bianca down and started to unbutton his cuffs. "Do you have armor underneath your dress?"

He's answered by laughter.

"I'm a mage!" She giggles. "Why would I need plate armor? Plus, enemies never get past you guys, do they?"

He merely nods, as Lavellan turns her back on him, letting him undress. The dwarf thanked her again for her work, and she flashes her trademark smile, saying that it's no big deal and that it's her job to ensure their satisfaction. After he's back on his tunic and pants and his usual, boring hunting boots, they exchanged goodbyes and Varric headed to bed, in the Inquisition's tavern.

But Varric couldn't sleep. He grabbed his nightstand; looking for that Song of Seasons book he tried reading, until he remembered that he returned it three weeks back. Now he wished he have not, as he tossed and turned on the bed, sleep not as elusive as before.

Yes, scars were a common thing — Varric has his fair share, yes. But nothing that many. Mithiin has one on her face, a thin one that's barely noticeable, right across her left brow and eye, marring her vallaslin a little. But the story of how the ones on her body got there will probably scare him. And that thick one across her collarbone will probably give him nightmares.

Varric doesn't know if he wanted to know the story behind that scar, but if he ever did, he's sure words would not be enough to tell it.


	5. Doubts and dreams

_A/N: Hello! I would just like to thank all of you who faved, followed, and reviewed! It means a LOT to me, and thank you for your support!_

_Have a refresher chapter, while I figure out the rest of the Halamshiral chapters (that are getting dangerously longer). ;; Thank you to my friend who told me that my Lavellan looked like a ball-jointed doll, hahaha. _

* * *

..

Mithiin reminded him of those Orlesian dolls he'd usually see in Val Royeaux.

He has seen one of those sort of rare dolls only once or twice, and a glimpse of it was all he saw, but he remembered on how impossibly perfect the doll's porcelain skin looked, how perfect and pristine and elaborate the doll's hair is, how slender and lithe and slim she is and how her gold dress emphasizes her frame, and he remembered how similarly soul-wrenching her eyes seemed. They were large and bright, rimmed with perfect eyelashes, with pale blue irises that seems like it shot right at his heart if she ever looked at him in the eye.

But her appearance always seemed so distant from who she truly is, and sometimes a look is more than enough to tell that. She may actually be younger than most of them, being in her mid-twenties, but her mind seemed to work in a complicated web of ideas that even Solas could not comprehend. He has seen it in action before, almost every night when he'd pass by her room and find her still working on important documents and the like.

Sometimes, he would find Mithiin fast asleep on strange corners of the room — on a chair, on her desk, leaned against the balcony ledge, in a state of odd undress on the floor; and sometimes he'd find her working on things he never thought she'd do. Sometimes, there are the usual documents, reports, and correspondence.

A few days after the test-fittings, he went to her room again, as if it was routine. And when he approached her, she assumed he was there for business reasons, not personal. She sounded groggy, but she seems to do a great job of hiding that. He was about to say something in reply when he caught the scent of tea, rum and perfume. Solas stepped nearer her table, trying to find the source, finding a set of inks made out of flowers and herbs which smelled rather strange, some cups of strong tea, some brushes, and an old mug with bamboo pens and writing nibs on them.

He thought that Varric was merely joking when he told him that Mithiin worked on the sketches, with the notes on the sides being a mere addition to the designer's work. But seeing her work was proof enough. He walked closer and merely looked as she sketched. They were mostly flowers, fauna, landscapes... until she turned the page to look back on some past pages, and suddenly it was filled with faces, mostly from the inner circle. She turns back to a fresh page, and started writing, but the letters became a lot more unintelligible as she continues, the letters looking like mountain peaks and scribbles than actual cursive.

She pauses, and looks Solas straight in the eye. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He made the move and snatched the quill from her hands, and she was too disoriented to complain or stand up to grab the tool. "I believe you need to sleep. I am aware that you just finished our outfits, and the project had been a success, but you need to make the most out of your free time to recuperate."

"I haven't drawn for myself recently, you know." She yawns, trying to hide the tired look on her eyes, making it evident that she's forcing herself to stay awake. She grabs another bamboo pen from the mug, trying to continue her work, but Solas snatched that off her hand, too. "Sometimes this is all I need. Trying to remember when and what exactly happened."

"And sleeping late and filling your journal with a sleepy child's writing is worth your precious time?" He grabbed her drawing hand, which seemed to relax at his touch. Her other hand rests over his. "Sleep, _ma vhenan_. You'll have better senses of what you're doing once you're actually rested."

"Maybe." She looks back at the sketches, as if judging them. Solas knew that predicament — as another artist, he'd hated working on something, then waking up and seeing his work and realizing how much he hated it. But he flipped the journal close, cutting her thoughts and worries short. "I don't know. I really don't know. There are things to do, and I'm not sure if I'm even ready for that blasted ball and—"

Solas cups both of her hands and kisses them. "You are. We are. And we already appreciate what you have done." He lets go of her hands, and led her to the bed, and asked her to sit, which she did. "Now sleep. You need it, and we'd love to see you in your usual, brighter self tomorrow." He crouched down and pulled off her boots and socks, and walks to the other side of the bed. He kneeled on the bed to face her back, and began undoing her braids.

"Sometimes the memories are flashing back, you know." She muses, somewhat not her usual pristine self because of her sleepiness. "They'd come back and I remember making all the wrong decisions back then. I'd lost a lot of things. Then I'd ask myself if I would repeat them once more and the consequences would be a lot worse than before, and I would lose things and it would be too late to do anything to get them back."

Solas pauses as he struggles with a knot, before he replies. "Do you actually think that you will fail? That all of this will be for nothing?"

"It's a possibility—"

"It's not."

"But what if I screw up and I did something wrong and Corypheus—"

"No, he will not."

"And how can you be so certain? That I'm not a failure?"

Solas finally figured out how to untie the threads and knots that hold most of her braids together, and her hair had fallen on her shoulders and chest, wavy and unkempt and a part of her that Solas likes seeing. Mithiin runs her hand through it, smoothing out the tangles, as if not accustomed to the sensation of it undone and everywhere, and looks back to Solas, who was still behind her. She looked like she wanted to hide behind all the white, messy hair.

He places both hands on her shoulders, there to reassure her. Mithiin looks down, as if she's already expected him not to respond, because — _of course, he has known her well for the last few months, he has seen through her, he'd seen her fail in things, surely he would not—_

"Because we are here to help you succeed. I am here to help you succeed. And because we are sure that you will make it so we'll win." He leans on her slightly as he wraps his arms around her. "Corypheus is but one selfish leader who decides for all of his army. But you listen to us, you act upon our suggestions as you see fit. That sets you apart from him. That makes you a lot better than him."

Mithiin's shoulders slumped, as if giving up on the small argument, but she looked at him as if she was still thinking of the failures and the possibilities and the aftermaths. After all, she embodies her name, her clan, her responsibility and she fills in the gap of expectations everyone expects her to fulfill. _Perfect, kind, responsible, brave, heroic, faithful—_

These were one of the things he adores about her, about Varric's so-called Lady Wishes, about everyone's Inquisitor, about the faithful's Herald of Andraste. Yes, Mithiin fills these responsibilities and expectations, but nighttime tells a different story about her. Sometimes, he would feel a tug in his gut, as if he was doing all the wrong things by liking anything about her, by falling in this pit, _as if keeping this up is an insane trick he should not pull, and that this was all a dream and he was merely fooling himself, and yet—_

— she was a treasure he'd keep. Maybe Solas could pretend that this could last, even for now.

Solas has pulled her to bed, but not before she had kissed him, and not before he has rubbed the tension and stress off her shoulders; and after that she has fallen asleep quickly, her head resting on his chest and their arms wrapped around each other. Even as Mithiin sleeps, she still looks like she's tense, but the type of tension you'd see in those dramatic plays —a little too peaceful to be real. But she relaxes, her heartbeat slowing down to relaxation, sleep catching up to her easily as her muscles relax and her breathing slows.

That's good. She has so much in her shoulders. Rest is something she deserves once in a while.

Solas closes his eyes and lulls himself to sleep, with a satisfied smile on his face, pulling her closer. There are places they still need to visit in another world, and Mithiin is waiting.


End file.
